


they hang on

by pearlgrip (wrightgotwronged)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Western Gothic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-28 05:56:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrightgotwronged/pseuds/pearlgrip
Summary: "What are your desires? Heaven? The Promised Land? Perhaps simply West over the ridge where the water tastes like the sweetest wine? You may wish it, but know, we all get what we deserve in the end."Arthur Morgan is a monster born from monsters. As the Van Der Lindes make their way East, Arthur comes face to face with ghosts of the past and future. This is a haunting. This is atonement.





	1. prelude

In 1863, on the eighth night of March under the new moon, Beatrice Morgan was blessed with a son.

 

He had come quick, swift like the winter winds that rumbled the wooden walls of their cabin. Beatrice could still feel the ache where her hips had cracked and buckled, her lithe frame almost splitting in two. Her son had clawed his way out of her, taking a bit of her soul with him as he went. 

 

Pain clings to her bones like tendrils. She feels in every step she takes, in every extension of her limbs.

 

Still, the memory had faded in the month since, losing color and sound, leaving behind spirit and feeling. Most might find themselves distraught, not being able to recall such a moment, but each time she lays eyes on him she finds that she doesn’t care much.

 

“Oh Arthur,” she whispers, leaning against his crib, the pendant of her necklace dangling over the edge of it. It’s dark, the moonlight from the window the only source of light in the cabin. She tickles his belly, causing Arthur to kick and giggle. “You are the best gift that has been given to me, you know that?”

 

Arthur laughs and coos.

 

“Not much of a talker are you? That’s alright, your daddy don’t talk much neither,” she laughs. “I’ll do enough for the both of us.”

 

Arthur coos again, reaching up to pull on Beatrice’s pendant.

 

“You like Mama’s pendant, huh? I don’t blame you, it’s pretty. It’s supposed to be a tree, but, I don’t really see it.”

 

The pendant is gold, recently polished but still marked by age. It is an oddly shaped thing, the center of it a triangle with one line extending from the point.

 

“You’re coddlin’ that boy too much, Beatrice,” a voice rumbles from her bed, barely ten feet away “He’s gonna be nigh 3 years old and still attached to your teet.”

 

“Don’t tell me you’re getting jealous now, Lyle.”

 

Lyle and Beatrice had always been a pair of contradictions. Where Beatrice was lithe and frail, Lyle was broad and sturdy. When Beatrice’s head would float up into the clouds, Lyle’s cynicism would yank her back to the Earth. For every bit that Beatrice was enigmatic and phantasmic, Lyle was plain and unassuming.

 

It had been a miracle either one of them had gotten this far.

 

“You can’t spend every minute on your feet for that boy,” he grumbles from under the covers. “Especially this late at night.”

 

“My son rises with the moon, Lyle. Ain’t his fault he was born like that.” She holds her pendant by the string, dancing it in front of Arthur’s needy hands.

 

“Most folk would call that being fussy, Beatrice.”

 

“Well you didn’t marry most folk and most folk ain’t give birth to this baby. So if I say he rises with the moon then, that’s how he rises,” she stomps her foot, the air in the cabin going still.

 

It’s quiet for what feels like hours before Lyle finally says: “As you will it.”

 

Beatrice nods, saying nothing.

 

“Just, come to bed soon all right? The boy’ll be fine if he’s anything like you.” Lyle rolls over, burying himself deep under the covers.

 

“Let’s hope he isn’t,” she says softly, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s head.

 

She stays with him for a bit longer, grabbing his hand.

 

“So much power in someone so tiny. Still can’t believe two devils made something so perfect.”

 

She lets go of his hand and gazes out the window. Her eyes drift along the trees surrounding their home, bending and swaying with the wind. White birchwood peaks out through thickets of oak.

 

“You’ll watch after him, right?” she whispers out into the air.

 

A stag comes along, bowing its head to eat some grass. It looks up and locks eyes with Beatrice for the briefest of moments before running off into the forest. She looks back at Arthur, now fast asleep.

 

She gives him one last kiss on the head before climbing into bed next to Lyle. She closes her eyes and counts backwards from ten.

 

The last thing she hears as she falls asleep is the single, solitary howl of a wolf.


	2. blind with loss all winter

The sawed off shotgun trembles in Arthur’s hand as he pulls the trigger, the wolf in front of him crumbling at his feet. The crack echoes through the mountains like a message. Two left. He reloads. His boots dig into the freshly fallen snow, an attempt to ground himself against the push of the wind and prickling of the crystalline flurry of ice hitting the exposed skin of his face. Despite Arthur’s posturing and willingness to incapacitate them, the remaining wolves do not show any sign of backing down.

 

It had barely been two days since the Van Der Lindes had found a place of temporary respite in Colter. From the moment that Arthur had set foot in the abandoned mining town, he could sense darkness hidden under the ice and snow. Claws and teeth scratching and gnawing just under the surface. He isn’t surprised that the thin veil that separates that darkness from the rest of the world would snap in half when they arrived. He is even less surprised that whatever is hidden beneath the depths had sunk its teeth into Marston.

 

Marston. The only reason he’s out in this frozen hellhole in the first place. Well, not the only reason. Javier was one “John’ll be fine” away from dragging him out into the snow by the collar. That’s Javier’s way, Arthur supposes. At least when it comes to Marston.

 

_ “He’d come look for me.” _ A rationalization, or perhaps a wish.

  
  


Arthur hears a growl. His eyes dart back and forth between the two wolves in front of him, then over to John and Javier. It would be the two of them in this mess, cursed to the grime and blood that came with being the two of the youngest guns in the gang. Dutch had shoved John and Javier together and then thrust upon them the unforgiving burden of his bidding. Over the years they had known each other, Javier had learned to take John’s weight onto himself elegantly. As if Javier’s sides and shoulders were covered in threads that would only attach themselves to John. That said, not even Javier could carry John’s battered body at any quicker pace than a slow crawl, John becoming more dead than weight as seconds tick by.

 

Another growl — a final warning. One of the wolves lunges, sinking its teeth into Arthur’s arm. A scream catches in Arthur’s throat as he retaliates, his hand coming up to shoot the wolf in the chest. He doesn’t have time to linger as the remaining wolf growls and charges at him. But Arthur isn’t distracted this time, and the wolf crumples to the ground with the crack of a shot.

 

Arthur wrenches his arm out from the slack jaws of the wolf and pushes himself off of the ground. He looks up to find Javier and John are finally saddled up on Javier’s horse, and he stumbles his way to the Tennessee Walker serving as his steed. A howl rings over the mountains. They need to go.

 

“Mierda,” Javier says, nodding at Arthur’s arm. “Thought I’d be coming back to bury you after all of that.”

 

“Sorry to disappoint.”

 

The three of them set off, Arthur never thinking he’d miss the broken down buildings of Colter like he does now. 

 

John’s face is pressed against the back of Javier’s shoulder. “I don’t feel too good,” he slurs.

 

“You’ll be fine,” Javier reassures, his voice careful and warm. “It’s just like a-a dog bite”.

 

“Knew a fella, got bit by a dog. Died an hour later.”

 

“You ain’t gonna die,” Javier says, more of a prayer than a fact. “Not yet.”

 

The snow is oppressive. White flakes fall swiftly upon them. The cold seeps in through their coats, drilling in deeper and deeper until it reached bone. The ride is rough and rocky, their horses’ hooves grinding into the snow as they make their escape.

 

“More on the right!” Javier shouts suddenly over the wind.

 

Arthur cocks his gun. He points. Shoots. Cocks. Points. Shoots. Repeats when Javier shouts, “More on the left!” It’s mechanical, the gun transforming into an extension of Arthur’s hand. Where the weight and the recoil and the power might make a gunslinger of lesser fortitude tremble, Arthur is strong and unmoved by the crack of each bullet. 

 

Finally, the last of the wolves falls lifeless into the snow. Arthur looks to John and Javier. If he squints through the snow, he can see determination etched into Javier’s features. John’s grip on Javier’s back is loosening, his body swaying with every step the horse takes. 

 

“You still with us, Marston?” Arthur calls.

 

John groans out an affirmation. He’s alive, barely. 

 

Javier’s voice is swallowed up by the wind. He’s yelling, voice hoarse as if the ice had permeated his skin and wedged itself in his throat. Arthur makes out the words  _ shelter _ and  _ soon _ . 

 

“Thanks for coming for me.” John says, trying to tighten his grip around Javier.

 

“Of course,” Javier responds. There’s a weight to it that extends beyond placation.

 

“That bullet in Blackwater, now this? You’ve had a hell of a time.”

 

John forces out a chuckle. “And Arthur always says...I’m lucky.”

 

Arthur stands by that statement. If he wasn’t, he’d be minced meat in the snow.

 

They come up to a running stream, opting to run the horses through it to lose the scent. He hopes it’s enough. The three of them are quiet, stiff. Their shoulders are locked and unmoving as their horses trudge through the snow.

 

“You know, we’re gonna have to come up with a better story for that scar,” Arthur teases, an attempt at distraction.

 

“So freezing, bleeding, and nearly starving to death ain’t good enough for ya?” John replies, alive enough to be irritated.

 

Arthur doesn’t respond. John doesn’t need to hear his relief.

 

They pick up the speed, the broken down cabins of Colter peeking out through the snow. Arthur never thought he’d be so happy to see them.

 

“Someone help get John off of this horse!” Javier yells as they ride into camp.

 

Silence. No response but the wind.

 

“Can we get some help here?” Arthur yells out.

 

Again, silence. Apprehension churns in Arthur’s stomach as seconds tick by.

 

Finally, the stillness breaks as one of the cabin doors slams open. Abigail leads a group outside, the crunch of her footsteps punctuated with her shouts of “You’re alive! You’re alive!”.

 

Javier helps John down, controlling the crowd with a cry of “Careful,  _ idiotas, _ it’s his leg!”

 

Arthur tumbles off his horse in an inelegant fashion. His arm transforms from an errant mishap into an unignorable hindrance. Adrenaline is one hell of a drug, tamping down most of the pain to where it can’t be more than a dull roar. Yet, as he stood alone in the snow, Arthur began to feel the withdrawal. The dull roar turns into a screaming, stabbing pain. He looks down.  _ Oh. _ Blood is seeping through the tears in his coat, turning the blue of the fabric a deep purple.

 

“Jesus…” He hisses.

 

“Everything ok?” A voice rumbles from behind him, causing Arthur to startle and whirl around.

 

Charles. He’s standing there, wrapped in a thick wool coat and headscarf with his hat sitting perfectly atop his head. Charles acted as an impending force to Arthur, commanding the energy around him. In the six months they had known each other, Charles had sent him looks that would squeeze the air out of his lungs. Like the one he was giving Arthur now.

 

“It’s nothing,” Arthur waves him off. “Just had a bit of a scrape bailing Marston out.”

 

“You’re bleeding,” Charles responds, crossing his arms.

 

“Charles if I paled every time I saw a drop of my own blood, I wouldn’t have made it far in this life.”

 

Charles’s brow furrows, unimpressed. “Come on,” He turns and begins to walk away. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

“Charles you really don’t have to-”

 

“That wasn’t a request,” he says, voice firm and unmoving.

 

Arthur knows when he’s lost. He lets Charles lead him to one of the unused cabins on the outskirts of camp. It seemed that Charles always preferred to keep himself at a distance, finding every hidden nook to take refuge in when they camped.

 

The cabin is in even worse shape than the others. There were patches of open space in the walls where the wood had rotted over time. There was a small fire pit burning in the middle of the cabin, the smoke from it drifting up through a hole in the roof. Charles’s things are nested in a corner. 

 

“Take off your coat,” Charles commands, rifling through his pack.

 

“Mr. Smith, you think this is the best place for all of that?”

 

Charles stops, hands freezing in place as he’s wrist deep in his bag. Arthur can’t see his face, but he has the sinking suspicion that the look on it isn’t pleasant.

 

“I need to see your arm,” Charles’s voice is firm, and unflinching. As if he had heard every single one of Arthur’s quips before Arthur even thinks of them and is now just resigned to self-fulfilling prophecy.

 

“All right,” Arthur relents, pulling off his coat. He hisses as the fur lining pulls at his broken skin. He sits down on a snow-covered wooden chair, abandoned like the rest of the town.

 

Charles walks up with a jar of god-knows-what and some bandages in hand.

 

“Let me see,” he says, kneeling before Arthur and grabbing his wrist to pull his arm towards him.

 

Arthur sits quietly, averting his gaze as Charles examines the wound.

 

“What did this thing do to you?” Charles mumbles, so quiet that Arthur almost misses it.

 

Arthur looks down at his bare arm for the first time. It’s not pretty. His skin is mangled, blood oozing from the wound. Six punctures tear across the flesh. Taking a closer look, Arthur sees a fleck of white peeking out of one of the punctures.

 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he lies. “You should see the other guy.”

 

“We’re gonna have to take it out,” Charles says, ignoring Arthur’s response.

 

“Take it out?”

 

Charles presses against the white fleck with his thumb, causing Arthur to hiss through his teeth.

 

“That’s a tooth,” Charles says, frowning. “Must’ve broken off when you pulled out of the bite.”

 

“Of course it is,” Arthur sighs

 

Charles holds his hand for the briefest of moments. Arthur’s gaze drifts down, his eye locking with the pale bandage wrapped around Charles’s hand.

 

“How’s your hand?” 

 

Charles stands up. “It’s fine. Not enough trouble for everyone to be fretting about it.”

 

“We just want you at your best, Charles. Especially in these times.”

 

“Says the man who’s walking around with a wolf fang in his arm.”

 

“Well,” Arthur replies “Weren’t my fault.”

 

Charles comes back with a strip of cloth, his canteen, a knife, and some whiskey.

 

“Want something to bite on?” he asks, setting his supplies on an old crate.

 

“Naw,” Arthur sighs, defeated.

 

“Drink up, then” Charles says, handing him the bottle of whiskey. 

 

It’s half full. Arthur assumes it’s the stash that he’s seen Charles dip into from time to time. The kind of thing you hide away and whisper your secrets into. Shame it had to go to waste on this. 

 

Arthur takes a swig from it, a big one. The burn warms his throat and spreads out through his chest and limbs.

 

He coughs. “Alright,” he says, handing the bottle back to Charles. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

Charles nods, once again kneeling down in front of Arthur. First, he ties the strip of cloth tightly around his arm, just below the crook of Arthur’s elbow. 

 

“Too tight?” Charles ask, his grasp light around Arthur’s wrist.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Good,” he nods.

 

Charles lets go of Arthur’s wrist to open his canteen. It only takes a few moments but it’s long enough for Arthur to miss the warmth and reassurance. Then, Charles pours water on the open wound. An odd tingle pulses through Arthur’s arm. He can’t decide if it’s the chill of the water or the pain of everything else.

 

Charles leaves him again and Arthur would be lying if he said it didn’t leave him off kilter. He feels vulnerable, like a kid. He tries to put his attention on something else. He watches as Charles sits in front of the small fire pit. He can see the glint of the blade of Charles’s knife, an omen. Charles holds it there until it’s hot.

 

Charles’s return to him does not bring Arthur the relief that he thought it would, the knife serving as a wall between them and solace.

 

“You want me to count off?” Charles takes Arthur’s wrist in his offhand, rubbing Arthur’s pulse point with his thumb.

 

“Naw,” Arthur responds, shaking his head.

 

“You don’t have to play tough all the time, Arthur.”

 

“Ain’t no playin’ about it. It’s worse if I see it coming.”

 

Charles’s brow furrows, not believing him, but he doesn’t press. Arthur is thankful. He’s not sure how long that gratitude will last.

 

Arthur is looking away when Charles digs the blade in. Charles’s grip  tightens, keeping Arthur in place.

 

Arthur opens his mouth, the ghost of a scream lost to the air. His other hand reaches up and latches on to Charles’s shoulder, his nails digging in hard.

 

Charles seems unfazed as he twists the hot knife. The fang is fickle and lodged deep into Arthur’s arm. Arthur can feel the pull and twist of his skin and sinew moving with Charles’s knife. His senses white out, the only sounds he can hear is wet squelch of blood under metal.

 

“Got it,” Charles grunts, quickly grabbing the jar off of the crate.

 

“What...What is that?” Arthur slurs out. His voice is raspy, and his vision blurry at the edges.

 

“Shh,” Charles hushes him, spreading a thick poultice over the bite. “It’s yarrow and burdock, it’ll help with the pain. Not much, but it’s better than nothing.”

 

Arthur can only nod as Charles carefully bandages his handy work. Charles’s hands are deft and meticulous, making sure that every bit of Arthur’s arm is wrapped neatly.

 

Arthur drifts, alcohol and blinding pain not really being the best mix. It’s not the worse he’s had, not even close. Yet his head feels detached from the rest of his body.

 

A warm hand at the crook of his neck finally takes him out of his stupor.

 

“Arthur, you still with me?” Charles asks, his voice low and distant in Arthur’s ear.

 

Arthur can’t feel much, the poultice working its magic,but he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t notice Charles’s fingertips drifting along his jaw.

 

“Ah, I’d never leave you Charles.”

 

Charles stands up swiftly, the closest thing to an abrupt movement that he could make. 

 

“You should rest,” he says. “That arm will keep you out of commission for a while.”

 

“Naw,” Arthur huffs. “I just need to sit for a minute. Then I’ll be right as rain.”

 

“Oh you terrible fool,” Charles says. Arthur thinks he hears a bit of fondness in it. He blames it on the pain, and maybe the whiskey.

 

Arthur closes his eyes, drifting away to the sounds of Charles putting his things in his pack.

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally here!!! After months of planning, procrastinating and occasional crying the first two chapters of this fic have debuted!!! I want to thank electricshoebox for being my beta and my person to scream at for this!! If you have not read any of their Red Dead Fic I suggest you go now to do it! I also want to thank miradored for doing some of the final clean up works before I posted!!!
> 
> Thank you to anyone who sent me kind words as I was working on this!! Strap in!! We're in for a ride!!!


End file.
